Baby, It's Cold Outside
by RobinRocks
Summary: USUK/GerIta/RoChu. Five little fics for the five days left before Christmas Day - and five different Christmases throughout history. Join the countdown!
1. Five Gold Rings

We're counting down the days to Christmas with some _Hetalia_ pairings from Monday to Friday – Christmas Eve! Yayz!

The structure of this will go USUK, RoChu, USUK, GerIta and then USUK again, not in chronological historical order. None of them are R-rated, fyi. The bias towards USUK (there being three of them) is actually not my own personal (totally-existent-OTP) bias and comes from the fact that three of the fics that make this short-story-set up were originally written for a Christmas fanbook project I was involved in. Details about the fanbook itself are provided in a link in my profile but honestly I don't actually know what happened with that in the end. o.O I don't think there is actually going to be a fanbook after all, at any rate.

But, well, I didn't want these to go to waste! I originally wrote three USUK oneshots and one RoChu one for the fanbook. One of the original USUK fics has been replaced in this collection with a different fic involving the two of them (eh, it was okay but a bit... idk, depressing) and the set is completed by a brand new GerIta that I wrote specially for this.

And so, without further ado, five gold rings. =)

UKUS – The First World War

"So I guess this is kind of your Christmas tradition now, huh?"

The shiver was present even in Alfred's voice, a sort of slight shudder beneath the skin of his speech; he was stuffed-up, too, from sneezing over and over. It was just a cold, just a measly little cold, but in conditions like this it could worsen, could congeal in the chest and fester in the lungs, grow roots in his bones so that he shook when he coughed—

"Hmm?" Arthur looked up from his glass of rum, his flaking cigarette pressed across the cold circle of glass as he clenched both in the same hand. "I'm sorry, what? I wasn't listening."

"This." Alfred ventured his arms – in full uniform, mind – out from beneath the thin, ragged blanket and gestured vaguely around the dug-out. "This... sort of—"

"Complete bollocks, you mean?" Arthur smirked at him – but it was tired, cynical, drained of his Pax-Britannica-arrogance of pre-1914. "I suppose so. I got tired of lavish parties and roasted goose and plum pudding and all that nonsense, you see. I decided I'd prefer to spend my Christmases from 1914 onwards cowering underground in a hand-dug hellhole drinking myself into oblivion."

"Arthur, I saw you at Ludwig's Christmas parties in the late 1800s," Alfred pointed out wryly, wrapping the blanket back around himself. "You don't need the excuse of shells and tanks and gunfire to drink yourself into oblivion."

Arthur grinned dryly at him, switching his rum to the other hand so that he could drag on his cigarette. Alfred noticed – and had noticed before – that his hands shook ever so slightly. He had never seen that in Arthur before all this—

His breath caught in his lungs and he started coughing. Arthur rolled his eyes at him.

"Good God, man," he muttered, "do die quietly, won't you?" He reached across and pressed his rum into Alfred's hand. "There, get that down you – it'll put out the fire."

Alfred gripped blindly at the glass and drank. It tasted awful, hot and sharp and bitter, God only knew what was in the stuff, supplies being as short as they were; but it quenched the cough, the lesser of two evils as it set his throat ablaze and overpowered the persistent chesty irritation there.

"Th-thanks," he muttered breathlessly, giving the glass back; there was still a faint film of rum swaying at the bottom of the dirty tumbler, which Arthur drained by tipping his head right back and flicking out his tongue to catch the final few drops from the tilted glass held above his head. Alfred watched the flash of his pale throat over his filthy shirt collar and tattered tie, noting that the whole motion was the most Arthur had actually moved in about an hour.

"That was the last of it," Arthur murmured, more to himself, shaking his thoroughly-empty glass. "Dash it all, now we'll have to wait until January for more supplies..."

"Oh, Christmas is all about over-indulgence, right?" Alfred teased. "What does it matter if you finished off the rum?"

"I'm afraid all you'll have to over-indulge on here is your imagination, Alfred," Arthur replied blandly, setting his glass down rather heavily and turning his attention back to his cigarette, what little left of it there was. "Or I think there's some chocolate..."

"Ha, fuckin' fire-fuel, you mean." Alfred sniffled, shivering, and actually saw his breath mist on the air. "Gee, guess I'll just have to go with my imagination."

"A wise choice," Arthur agreed, finishing his cigarette and tossing it onto the floor, crushing it with the mud-caked heel of his boot. "I think I'd rather take that damnable frog's stewed snail soup over half the stuff they send up here for us..."

Alfred pulled a face.

"Eww, snails ain't no good for a Christmas feast!" he said earnestly. "Don't go putting stuff like that in my head, Arthur!"

"Ah, my apologies," Arthur sighed, bunching up close to Alfred on the narrow rickety bed. "I forgot how easily distracted you are."

"'S'okay," Alfred murmured, reaching out and pulling Arthur in close to his chest so that he could wrap the thin blanket around them both. "So, about that big old Christmas spread of ours...?"

"Oh, now it's _ours_?" Arthur hummed thoughtfully to himself, making himself comfortable against Alfred's chest. "Well, duck is traditional – or goose, roasted over an open fire—"

"Can we have turkey too?" Alfred interrupted excitedly.

"Yes, of course we can."

"Chestnuts?"

"Yes, those too—"

"Oh, and sweet potatoes!" Alfred trilled happily. "And stuffing and—"

"Alfred, this isn't Thanksgiving."

"Tch, Thanksgiving is just an excuse to stuff my face twice. Well, we'll have everything! Honey-roast ham, too, and carrots and parsnips and cornbread!" Alfred paused, thinking. "Um, well, I guess we need drinks, too."

"Mulled wine," Arthur supplied immediately. "Brandy. Spiced rum."

"God, you're like an alcohol inventory!" Alfred laughed. "Well, okay, but we have to have eggnog too!"

"...You know _I_ invented that, don't you?"

"And then I hijacked it fair and square." Alfred rocked Arthur in his arms, the movement creating the slightest spark of body heat. "Hey, don't forget that we need candy, too! Candy canes, right?"

"And sugared almonds. And _real_ chocolate." Arthur smiled. "You forgot desserts."

"Oh yeah! Pumpkin pie—oh, and apple pie too, don't forget that."

"As long as _you_ don't forget mince pies or Christmas pudding."

"I won't." Alfred searched around under the blanket and found Arthur's hand – it was as cold as his, his bones brittle and his nails ragged and dirty. "And sugar dates and nuts to finish."

"And then you'll go and lie in front of the fire and groan all evening that you've eaten too much," Arthur sighed; Alfred felt him lace their icy fingers together.

Alfred grinned and rested his chin on top of Arthur's head, pleasantly aware that they were becoming more and more intertwined with every motion on either of their parts – if only to try and conserve body heat by clinging to each other's shivering forms.

"Well, that's _my_ Christmas tradition," he said; he winced as he felt his stomach practically turn in on itself with hunger, growling audibly and aggressively. "Argh, too bad thinking about our awesome Christmas dinner is reminding me that I'm fuckin' starving."

Arthur shifted in his grip, cuddling closer.

"Me too," he muttered. "Well, thank you for joining me in my Christmas tradition this year, Alfred. It's been a pleasure."

Alfred laughed.

"Liar."

"No, really; or, at least, it's been more companionable than past years. I've never felt much like snuggling up to Francis."

"Understandable." Alfred moved again, lowering his head enough to kiss Arthur on the cheek. "That's the best present I have for you, though. I'm sorry."

Arthur shook his head.

"You should be," he said. "It hardly matches up to mine."

He tilted his head and pushed upwards, pressing his mouth against Alfred's; Alfred closed his eyes and put his hands on Arthur's shoulders, feeling the coarse material of his filthy uniform beneath his fingers, his nails finding holes in the fabric, so different from the silks and velvets he had been regaled in during Christmases before when they shared another of their Christmas traditions, the customary drunken half-laughing kiss beneath the mistletoe somewhere close to midnight that sometimes led to something more, stumbling up the stairs clinging to each other (sort of like this but without the mud and barbed wire and far-off explosions).

Arthur tasted like rum, though – and smoke. That was another of his Christmas traditions and it was the tiniest shard of familiarity, of normalcy, that made the rest of this alright.

Arthur pulled back from him and Alfred smiled dazedly at him for a moment – and then sneezed. Arthur simply rolled his eyes at him as he sniffled miserably and cuddled close again.

"Merry bleeding Christmas, you wanker," Alfred heard him whisper.

* * *

Day One down! Poor sickly-starving-silly Alfred. Oh well, the Yanks were only in the war for like a year anyway. He'll be stuffing his face with turkey again soon enough (because although this wasn't dated, it can _only_ have taken place in 1917).

Tomorrow is RoChu – but before we steer away from USUK, all USUK fans need to go to my profile and look at that link at the top that I'm very excited about.

I assure you that you won't regret it. XD

Until tomorrow!

RobinRocks

xXx

**Baby, It's Cold Outside**: The oft-covered song itself doesn't appear in any of these drabbles but it's a wartime song about the holiday season's notorious weather, written by Frank Loesser in 1944. I thought it was a fitting title... even if only one of these will be set during the "canon" timeline of WWII.

(It _is_ freaking cold outside, though. The entirety of Britain is under like six feet of snow right now...)


	2. Four Calling Birds

And so we're back for Day 2 of my little Christmas countdown! I'm glad everyone enjoyed yesterday's instalment! Today we're on RoChu – my first (and only) solely-RoChu fic, though I have mentioned the pairing in a few other fics of mine. Personally I think China – good old world-weary China – is the only person who can really manage Russia and is therefore a much better fit for him than Lithuania, Prussia or America. Just my opinion, though. China is kind of (to quote jesusofsuburbia2o2o) a bamf, though. XD

Thankyou to my reviewers: **ImaduckQuaQua, hotaru1013, andthenshesaid, the-dark-realm, TheWonderBunny, CalaveraCandiedSkull, Keamykaykay, Lost Duck Inc. **(who was also involved in the fanbook project)and the lovely **TechnoRanma**!

Four calling birds~!

RoChu – A Possible Future

Children didn't want gifts like this – like the one Ivan had given him in 1949.

Of course, Ivan was old but Yao himself was even older. Even nations like Francis or Arthur or Antonio had nothing on Yao, who carried over four thousand years of history in his fragile bones, in the faint lines of his pretty feminine face.

Of course, much had changed since then. He had crested once or twice on waves that would later come to be known as superpowerdom, falling far in between; he had seen nations begin as tiny seeds and grow quickly into brutal unruly weeds that spread out their vines and creepers and strangled everything in their path, his own vast wealth of culture sucked dry _by_ Francis and Arthur and Antonio, to name but a few.

And then, of course, there was Kiku, who had matured and flourished beneath Yao's care and then elbowed him away, even attacking him more than once to prove that he was stronger. After the war and the wedge it drove between them, Kiku began to peel off his Asian skin almost altogether, trading kimonos and tea-ceremonies for every bittersweet morsel of Alfred's post-war influence, for every opportunity and door to the outside world it offered him.

And so Yao was left with nobody but an old war-time ally, Ivan Braginsky. Ivan, who in 1918 had decided that wealth was shallow and material meaningless. He had persuaded Yao, who had always taken pride in things of great beauty and craft, to also turn his back on the world of empires and superpowers, of kings in their counting houses.

Such gentle words they had been – such gentle persuasions. Ivan could be strangely fragile when he felt like it, careful with Yao in 1949 as he took his hand and led him away from the rest of the world.

"Even so," Yao breathed one night – that first night – in forty-nine, "I don't want to be part of the Soviet Union."

"That would be well," Ivan replied, smiling sweetly.

Oh, how different he was with Yao. How kind. How thoughtful. Even as he and Alfred threatened each other and everyone else as a by-product of their awful power, Ivan had been good to Yao. The first Christmas they were together, even though Yao hadn't celebrated Christmas back then, Ivan had given him a matryoshka doll, hand-made and hand-painted, with eight other smaller dolls inside. The smallest had been no bigger than a fingernail. The painting and craftsmanship had been rather clumsy (Ivan did have rather large hands, after all) but Yao had been very touched and had treasured it. Money did not buy happiness and Yao had truly believed in Communism after that Christmas – when Ivan's gift had cost nothing and meant everything.

It had always sat on the dresser in Yao's bedroom, having pride of place amongst gold dragon charms and jade beads and carved wooden combs; over the years and decades since, the dresser had gradually cleared, charms and beads and combs being replaced first with nothing as Yao struggled under Communism and then, as the Millennium left that last bloody century behind, with brightly-coloured yuan notes, arranged in neat piles according to size and value, and receipts and tiepins and cufflinks.

Yet still there the matryoshka doll sat – a reminder of what had brought he and Ivan together (and what kept them together long after their belief in Communism faded), a round little smiling-faced woman with rosy-cheeks and a bright shawl to keep out the cold, for she had been gifted at Christmas and it was cold in both Russia and China in December.

Children didn't want gifts like this. Yao knew that well. He'd had factories springing up all over his country since the mid-eighties, spewing out garishly-coloured plastic dreams for Santa to bring to spoilt brats in North America and Europe, in Australia and even as close to home as Japan (because Kiku was rather shrewd at cashing in on things too, it had to be said). There were new trends and fads every year and the pressure to keep up with the demand was tremendous. Of course, it was easier for Yao once he gave up Communism altogether – Ivan gently, ironically, mocking him that it had taken him long enough – and stopped trying to deny what he was, stopped trying to be Capitalist behind his own back.

It became him, after all. There was money to be made at Christmas and why should _he_ not be the one to make it?

It was Christmas Eve and Wang Yao had a meeting. The year's Christmas shopping was done by now, of course, with parents all over the world waiting with bated breath for their sugar-charged, hyped-up little darlings to finally fall asleep so that they could silently and secretly stuff the stockings with sweets and arrange the presents around the tree – millions upon millions' worth of dollars, of pounds, of euros, of ore, of yen, of _yuan_. No, tonight's Christmas Eve meeting had nothing to do with _this_ year. It was about next year – and perhaps they'd discuss the year after, too, if they got time. More factories, more production, more workers, more goods, more _money_.

Yao straightened his tie, tugged at the sleeves of his charcoal-grey suit jacket, checked that his long glossy hair was tied back as neatly as possible, picked up his briefcase and headed for the door, his fingertips brushing lightly over the roughly-cut head of the matryoshka doll as he passed the dresser.

Tomorrow he and Ivan would have tea together. He would graciously wish Ivan a Merry Christmas even though he was not a Christian. Perhaps he would even wear a silk shirt with a mandarin collar and frog-knot fastenings instead of a suit.

But _tonight_ Wang Yao – once again the richest man in the world – had a meeting.

* * *

...Because it could happen. China actually overtook Japan last year as the world's second-largest economy, just behind the United States.

Okay, okay, Russia wasn't actually IN IT, exactly. Close enough. He was _meant_ to be in it in person but I liked how this came out better, to be honest.

BTW, **Lost Duck Inc.**, whom I already mentioned as being a part of the same (presumed dead) fanbook project these fics were originally written for, also posted her contribution. It's called _If Gravity Pulled You Up_ and it's gorgeous. I put it on my Favourites list and I would recommend it if you want something a little bit melancholy to whet your Blue Christmas appetite (thanks, Elvis!). The pairing is USUK – which is, coincidentally, what we return to here tomorrow.

Speaking of USUK, if you haven't already, go and click that link on my profile. I swear to God it's not a RickRoll (though it might elicit a similar reaction).

RR xXx


	3. Three French Hens

Whoo hoo, Day 3 of our countdown! OMG, I can't _believe_ Christmas is so close, seriously. Where did 2010 go? I want my year back! Rawr.

Thanks to: **ForeverTheHeroAndKing, ImaduckQuaQua, CalaveraCandiedSkull, Minnie, Lost Duck Inc.** and **Greyraninbowninja39**!

Three French hens... uh, well, France is in it, at least! Enjoy a sugary little side helping of Franada with today's USUK! =)

USUK – In the Reign of Victoria

"I… think that perhaps you have had enough of the spiced rum," Ludwig said uneasily after a moment's hesitation; he leaned forwards in his armchair to move the bottle out of Arthur's reach, for where it was at the moment – the edge of the table – made it too easy for him to grab.

"Do you think so?" Arthur asked drowsily from the floor; he was stretched out on the fur rug in front of the fire like a cat, very drunk and very sleepy and in very good spirits. Alfred was next to him, practically asleep himself.

"I believe I just insinuated as much, yes," Ludwig replied coldly.

"Ah, Ludwig, mon cher," Francis chided, adjusting his grip on Matthew, "it is Christmas, non? I must say that it is quite unlike _you_ to be mean-spirited at this time of year!"

Ludwig scowled – although perhaps more at Francis's actions than his words, for the Frenchman first took up the bottle and passed it down to Arthur on the rug and then redirected his attention very thoroughly to a squirming, uncomfortable-looking Matthew.

"You can carry him upstairs when he passes out, then, Francis," Ludwig said stiffly, rising. He went bustling away as efficiently as ever to meet with Roderich, who was gesturing wildly to him, in the hall – apparently there had been a bit of a hitch between Gilbert and Elizaveta over by the Christmas tree and Gilbert was now sporting some kind of horrendous black eye...

"Ah, the drunken revelries never change, do they, Francis?" Arthur said cheerfully, a hiccup bubbling under his voice as he pulled the cork out of the rum bottle. "This might as well be the thirteenth century, what with everyone splitting each other's faces in half." He glanced between Matthew – protesting quietly in French as Francis licked at his neck – and Alfred, curled up on the rug beside him. "Present company excused, of course."

"They are good enough stand-ins," Francis purred, Arthur watching him out of the corner of his eye as he drank straight from the bottle. "Mathieu here is an excellent wench for my entertainment and Alfred fills in nicely for the drunken knight who cannot keep his wits about him."

"Alfred is not drunk," Arthur explained rather seriously; he reached across and tipped some of the rum over Alfred, making him start awake and sit up dazedly, shaking his head.

"Oh, it's you," he muttered, glancing at Arthur; he moved closer to him and leaned against him sleepily, watching his brother getting molested quite unconcernedly.

This _was_, of course (Arthur felt), really quite like those Medieval Christmas parties back in the old drafty courts; Ludwig was rather Medieval himself in that sense, the corridors strung with holly and mistletoe – and at midnight they would stop for carols around the newer German tradition, the great decorated Christmas tree, and remember the reason for the festivities. In the meantime, people got drunk and ate too much and fought and vomited and passed out. Ah, and got molested. Or were the molester. The year was 1891 and little had changed. Perhaps that was why Ludwig always looked so irritated whenever his Christmas parties turned out exactly the same.

_Well, what was he expecting?_ Arthur thought, pushing Alfred away and getting up. He stumbled a little, caught his balance on the mantelpiece and started away, still clutching the rum. He didn't quite know where he was going but no-one followed him or even asked why he was leaving, not even Alfred (who merely swayed and then fell back onto the rug again without Arthur to support him).

He found himself on the back veranda of Ludwig's house, shivering against the December wind in only his thin dress-shirt, jacket and waistcoat and cravat discarded long ago when the drinks started to go around. Still, he couldn't help but notice that the cold night air had begun to sober him up already. He put the bottle down on the wood beside him and patted himself down. Bollocks. His cigars had been in his jacket and Lord knew where _that_ was. He snorted irritably, knowing he'd have to go without. Rum, a cigar and a nice fairy story from Ludwig – who, despite his straitlaced demeanour, actually had a rather good imagination for things like that – would have been the ticket and now he had only the alcohol.

Rather _like_ those old Medieval parties, where he had been left in the corner by himself with a pitcher of ale (if he was lucky), whilst teenaged Francis had strutted about like he owned the place.

He heard footsteps on the wood behind him and then, before he could even snap at the intruder to bugger off, Alfred flopped down rather heavily next to him. He was holding something, which he proudly showed to Arthur.

"Look at this little guy!" he said, holding up the hand-painted wooden nutcracker doll. "I swiped him from the table when Ludwig and Roderich were engaged chasing in Gilbert through the entrance hall! Look what he can do! Uh, the doll, I mean – not Gilbert."

Alfred fished around in his jacket pocket and brought out a walnut, placing it between the nutcracker doll's teeth and cleanly breaking the hard shell in two.

Arthur had seen a nutcracker doll before and so wasn't particularly impressed but he observed the flushed grin on Alfred's face and smiled back.

"They are very clever contraptions," he agreed, reached for the doll and taking it gently from Alfred's hand. He held it in his lap, trying to suppress his shivering, and looked at it.

It was ugly in the tradition of these dolls – and yet also very beautiful in a strange way, the hours of craftsmanship and care put into its creation absolutely unmistakable in every joint, in every brushstroke. It sort of reminded him of—

"Hey, you know what it reminds me of?" Alfred cut into his thoughts, crunching his walnut. "Do you remember those little soldier dolls you made for me when I was a child?" He tilted his head and looked at the nutcracker. "I think that is why I like him so."

"Of course I remember," Arthur said, handing the doll back. "I also remember the injury you gave me."

"It was an accident!" Alfred shrugged off his velvet jacket and draped it around Arthur's shoulders. "You shall catch your death out here dressed like that, Arthur. We _are_ in Munich."

"Thank you." Arthur clutched Alfred's jacket tighter around his shoulders, already feeling warmer. It smelt of him, of the scent that clung to Alfred nowadays, that quasi-cowboy scent of dust and leather. He glanced at Alfred, who was looking fondly at the doll.

"Do you think Ludwig would notice if I took this?" he asked.

"Probably," Arthur answered honestly.

"I am going to take it anyway."

"I know."

He pushed up closer to Alfred as the sound of the piano – played beautifully, so of course it was Roderich – came drifting out from somewhere inside the house and the sound of singing came ghosting with it, the sweet slow _Silent Night_ – or _Stille Nacht_, to be precise, the original version of the song. There was Elizaveta trilling over all the lower-pitched male voices and there was Gilbert's rasping and there was Roderich's own calm full voice, leading the others along. He could hear Ludwig and Francis and Matthew and Vash and Feliks and Toris and Antonio – and the Nordics and the rest of the Baltics and Ivan, too, who sang strangely prettily.

"Should we go back inside?" Alfred said in a low voice, winding his arm around Arthur's back and pulling him close.

"No," Arthur sighed. "They're singing in German. Let's just listen."

So they sat and listened and looked up at the sky with the rum and the nutcracker doll between them – and the night was silent and the snow began to fall and they kissed in English under the opal-mirror moon in Munich because it was Christmas and because they were drunk and because they were in love even then.

* * *

German is the original language of _Silent Night_. Funnily enough, the English translation became more popular after 1914. No prizes for guessing why.

Speaking of Germany, tomorrow we're with him and the ever-excitable Italy for the first of the two brand-new fics I wrote for _Baby, It's Cold Outside_. Yayz!

RR xXx


	4. Two Turtle Doves

Huzzah, it's two days to Christmas and today we're with _Hetalia_'s other practically-canon couple! =) (Though award for '_Actually_ Canon' still goes to Giripan, lolololol – though I'm on the fence about whether or not that USUK BL sound drama ought to take their crown...)

Thanks to: **ImaduckQuaQua, CalaveraCandiedSkull, the-dark-realm, lalalaHETALIA** and **dragonheart3**!

Two turtle doves~! (The most fitting title yet, methinks!)

GerIta – The Last One of the Millennium

Through two layers of gloves – soft wool and practical leather – Ludwig could feel the pulse of Feliciano's small hand in his, the thrum of excitement in his veins beating down to every fingertip. Despite his height, despite his strength, he was being dragged along nonetheless by the tiny Italian, who weaved in and out of throngs of busy, set-minded market-goers with an ease no doubt borne of fleeing the French and the Austrians and the English at various points in time.

Ludwig didn't weave and slither quite as well as Feliciano did, bumping into this shoulder or that shopping bag as he was hauled along, apologising as quickly as he could before it was too late and he had been dragged past the hapless shopper his impressive breadth had almost pasted flat to the nearest gingerbread stall.

It was almost comical, in fact, that Feliciano was giving him practically his entire attention – as usual – and yet also very little of it, yammering away to him in his accented, long-learnt German as he slipped through the crowd but barely paying heed to where he was leading him. Ludwig was past trying to stop him or slow him down – Feliciano was rather like a child at the best of times and always got overexcited at the German Christmas markets, so many bright things and shiny things and good-smelling things surrounding him that he barely knew which way to turn. It was better to just let him scramble ahead like a puppy on its first ever walk and just try his best to keep hold of him so that he didn't get lost or trampled or both.

"What haven't we eaten, Ludwig?" Feliciano called over his shoulder, beaming sweetly. "We've had pretzels, bratwurst, gingerbread and, um, that thing in breadcrumbs..."

"Schnitzel." Ludwig gave a tug on Feliciano's arm and pulled him clear of the narrow walkway between tiny stalls, halting next to a stand selling little hand-painted wooden toys. "Stop and let's get our bearings for a moment, Feliciano."

"But there's still so much to see!" Feliciano cried, swinging on Ludwig's strong arm. "And still things to eat!"

Ludwig couldn't help but smile at him.

"There's time enough," he said fondly.

Feliciano brightened at the smile – a rarity on Ludwig's stony features – but still tugged.

"But it's Christmas Eve!" he whined. "And we still have to go church at midnight! You promised!"

"I know," Ludwig replied calmly, "and we will. We'll head up to the cathedral in plenty of time for midnight mass, Feliciano, but for now let's stop for a moment. I think we may be going in circles. I'm pretty certain we've come by here before."

"Hm?" Feliciano glanced at the stall and his amber eyes sparked with recognition. "Ah, yes! I remember these little animals!" He dragged Ludwig to the stall and pointed at the tiny bright carved creatures with bobbing heads. "This cat reminds me of Big Brother Antonio taking a siesta... oh! and this little mouse looks like Lovino, don't you think?"

Ludwig squinted but couldn't see much resemblance other than the fact that the mouse had been painted with a rather grouchy expression on its face.

"Mm." Well, it was fairly open, non-committal reply, he felt. "We haven't gotten any glühwein yet," he added. "Shall we get that next?"

"Okay!" Feliciano was rummaging in his pockets. "I'll get that since you bought the pretzels and the bratwurst." He came up with a fistful of gold and silver, the coins glinting and slipping between his fingers. "But I want to buy the cat and the mouse for Lovino and Antonio—oh!" He reached out suddenly to point excitedly at something on the stall and dropped his money, the gleaming coins showering all over the snowy ground.

Feliciano panicked and bumped against the stall, knocking over a few of the wooden ornaments, as he hurriedly dropped to a crouch to salvage his money; Ludwig grabbed at the stall to steady it, righting the giraffe that was barely hanging onto the edge and fixing the other zoo inhabitants that had toppled, all under the rather disapproving glare of the well-wrapped-up owner. Ludwig didn't know quite what to do with himself and, after hesitating awkwardly for a moment, bent to help Feliciano pick up his coins.

Feliciano was whining under his breath in Italian, counting in the same as he picked the little discs up.

"Feliciano, this is what a wallet is for," Ludwig pointed out patiently, grabbing up two deutschmarks and a handful of snow.

"I know," Feliciano replied brightly, "but I didn't want these to get mixed up with my lira. I always get so confused with currency. I wish everyone had the same kind..." He held out his gloved hand for the two coins Ludwig had picked up. "Ah, I think that's them all!"

"Good." Ludwig straightened his scarf as they rose again. "What got you so excited?"

"Those." Feliciano pointed again, taking more care this time.

More cats. Two little wooden cats, one black and one pale caramel with brown markings, all curled up together and contentedly asleep with their tails intertwined. The black cat had a little bow around its neck in the red, yellow and black of the German flag and a sort of put-upon but accepting expression on its face. The brown cat looked very happy indeed.

"Aren't they cute, Ludwig?" Feliciano cooed.

"You like them?" Ludwig asked by way of reply, glancing down at the Italian.

Feliciano nodded, but it was forlorn.

"But they're probably expensive," he said. "And I need to get us the glühwein and I want to buy these for Lovino and Antonio..."

"Well—"

"I'll be right back!" Feliciano brightened again, stretched to kiss Ludwig on the cheek, picked up the cat and the mouse and went to pay for them.

Ludwig stood at the edge of the stall and looked at the sleeping cats. Typical Feliciano, always reeled in by something pretty. Ludwig was pretty certain that it was Feliciano's visits to his country alone that kept the German tourist industry afloat...

Feliciano came bounding back with a little paper bag.

"Okay, let's go and get glühwein, Ludwig!" he said excitedly.

"Ah," Ludwig said awkwardly, "why... why don't you go and get it for us and I'll find us somewhere to sit?"

Oh, who was he fooling? Even _Feliciano_ wouldn't fall for this – it was so obvious, so ill-executed, so—

"Alright!" Feliciano beamed at him. "There's a stall right over there that I saw! I'll be back in a minute!"

He went scampering off again, darting back into the bright crowd like a little fish into a coral reef, oblivious and confident. Ludwig turned back to the stall and wouldn't meet the stall-holder's gaze as he made his purchase; he knew he wasn't any good at this romantic thing, at least not in a way that seemed natural and _not_ horribly wooden, and he didn't need her looking at him _like that_ to remind him of the fact all over again.

He tried his best, of course; but his best just wasn't Francis and that was (thankfully) that.

He met Feliciano on his way back, carefully carrying the two little boot-shaped glasses steaming heartily in the cold December air.

"We can keep the glasses if we don't want our four deutschmarks back!" Feliciano announced. "I kind of want to keep mine, though. It reminds me of my map..."

"I have lots of these at home," Ludwig sighed. "I'll give you one of those. It's pointless to buy another one."

"Ah, okay!" Feliciano sipped happily at his glühwein. "You're so sensible, Ludwig!"

Ludwig couldn't help but shoot a wry smile at him over his own glass at that.

"Romantic, isn't it?" he replied dryly. "Always so practical, so organised—"

"I like it!" Feliciano insisted. "I mean, I like that about you, Ludwig. I'm always so... so..." He didn't finish, apparently unable to come up with the word he wanted, but Ludwig gave a nod of understanding. Of bone-deep, decades-old understanding. "Anyway!" Feliciano went on cheerfully, "I just meant that I'm glad you're like that. That's _you_ and it makes me feel safe. I know you'll always have everything under control and you'll always come and rescue me if I need help!"

Ludwig nodded.

"Of course I will." He hesitated for a moment. "And I... I like you the way you are too. You're... you're very, ah..."

_Oblivious in a battle situation. A pain in the neck in a battle situation. Utterly useless in a battle situation._

"H-happy," he decided, meeting Feliciano's hopeful gaze. "Yes, happy. Always happy. I like that about you. It makes me happy too."

Ugh, perhaps sometimes it wouldn't kill to be like Francis, at least a little bit. Arthur was always quick to made snide remarks about Francis' "poetry", of course, but "Mon ami, I fear that I shall drown within the shimmering soul-deep pools of your eyes" was still better than "I like you because you're happy".

But Feliciano linked their arms and cuddled gleefully against him.

"I'm so glad," he trilled, squeezing Ludwig's arm. "I love you, Ludwig."

Ludwig hesitated again; then awkwardly reached out and patted Feliciano on the shoulder.

"I-I love you too," he stammered quickly. He took a distracted drink of his glühwein and jammed his free hand into the pocket of his heavy coat, his fingers closing around the jagged shape of the paper-wrapped cats.

The perfect diversion.

"Uh, here, Feliciano," he said gruffly, pulling out the paper package and thrusting it at the tiny Italian. "I... I mean, I have another present for you too, a proper one, but this... this is just..." He cleared his throat. "Well, it's German tradition to open presents on Christmas Eve anyway so I thought... I thought I should give you something to open before... um, before we..."

He trailed off and instead shoved the paper bag at Feliciano, who disentangled himself from Ludwig's arm to delightedly take it. He seemed to forget that he was holding glühwein and almost dropped it in order to start opening the bag; Ludwig steadied it and took Feliciano by the arm, steering him over to a bench already occupied by an elderly couple sipping at little cups of hot chocolate.

_Austrians,_ Ludwig noted of their dialect with an inward grimace as he plonked Feliciano down next to the old lady. Why did _all_ Austrians look at him in the same bossy, disapproving manner that Roderich did? He could practically feel it radiating off the couple as he squeezed his broad frame into the remaining space on the bench next to Feliciano. Roderich's will was certainly strong in his people...

Feliciano was completely oblivious to them, singing happily to himself in Italian as he unwrapped the impromptu gift. Ludwig went back to his glühwein and didn't even glance up when Feliciano gave a shrill squeak of joy right next to his ear.

"Oh, Ludwig, thankyou!" Feliciano shrieked, throwing his arms around Ludwig's neck—

There went the glühwein at last. It had only been a matter of time before Feliciano flung it somewhere, after all. It rapidly melted a hole in the snow and the boot-shaped glass disappeared into it; the elderly Austrians turned their disapproving aura on the Italian briefly before getting up and scuttling away with their noses in the air like Roderich always did.

Feliciano was, of course, oblivious, hanging off Ludwig's neck with the cats clutched in his gloved hand.

"I love them!" he cried. "Thankyou so much for buying them for me! You're just the nicest person ever!" He kissed Ludwig on the cheek and then had the little sleeping cats each do the same.

Ludwig's face was still blazing by the time they'd rescued Feliciano's (thankfully unscathed) boot and handed both of them back. Feliciano was now clutching very tightly at his hand, the cats peeking out of his pocket as he munched on a slice of stöllen with his other hand.

"Let's get out of here," Ludwig muttered, pulling Feliciano towards the last couple of stalls. "We should start heading over to the cathedral."

"Okay!" Feliciano trotted happily alongside him, content that he'd tried everything there was to eat in the immediate vicinity.

He paused, however, as they stepped out of the market, glancing back at the bright row of fairystory-stalls, all tightly packed with locals and tourists enjoying their Christmas Eve in a manufactured old-world setting.

"What's the matter?" Ludwig asked, stopping too.

Feliciano looked at him and smiled.

"Nothing," he said. "I just wanted one last look at it. Don't you? This is the last ever Christmas Eve we'll spend here in this millennium, you know." His amber eyes were bright but a little wistful. "This century too, Ludwig. A lot of things have happened to us this century, after all." He squeezed Ludwig's hand. "We met in the twentieth century."

"And we'll take that with us into the next century," Ludwig promised, "and the next _millennium_ too, Feliciano." He tugged at his small hand and they started walking again, turning their backs on the market.

"But," he went on quietly as Feliciano pressed close to his side, "if you must know, I'll be quite glad to leave this blood-stained century behind us."

* * *

Yayz, cameo appearances from Catalia and Germouser. God, that 'If the world was all about cats' thing in _Hetalia_ was weird. o.O Not to mention it turned out to be a fucking mind trip at the end there with Nihoneko and Japan actually being separate entities... idk.

Italy got his wish! In 2002, 16 of the EU countries changed their national currencies to the Euro, including Italy and Germany (also Austria, Spain, France, etc). In Britain we like to be awkward, though, and we kept our sterling – most of the Scandinavian countries like Denmark, Sweden, etc, also kept their own currencies. I think it's kind of sad that they all gave up their currencies for the Euro, though. I hope we don't go to the Euro in the UK. We already got rid of our shillings and sixpences in the 1970s so at least let us keep our pounds and pence! =(

I can't _believe_ tomorrow is Christmas Eve! We're wrapping this up with a final USUK piece, set back in one of the two big reasons that Germany might be happy to leave the 20th Century in the past where it belongs.

German Christmas markets are awesome! Birmingham, England, always has a really good one. You always rinse through so much money buying pretzels and hot chocolate, though...

RR xXx


	5. And a Partridge in a Pear Tree

'Twas the night before Christmas, Jack Skellington was nowhere to be found and RobinRocks was still wondering where the hell her year went. o.O

Well, we've reached our final piece! Like the GerIta fic yesterday, this one is a brand-new fic I wrote for _Baby, It's Cold Outside_ and wasn't intended for the fanbook. It's also the longest so I saved it for last. =)

Thanks, eggnog and a mince pie to: **andthenshesaid, CalaveraCandiedSkull, ImaduckQuaQua, Sophie, Narroch, La**, **Synonymous Brian **and **IfLifeHadWings**!

On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me a partridge in a pear tree—

I had absolutely no idea what I was supposed to do with such a bizarre combination of items.

USUK – The Second World War

"I'm going to put up my Christmas lights," Alfred announced.

"I'd rather you didn't," Arthur said, not looking up from his paperwork.

"I know," Alfred replied cheerfully. "I'm going to put them up anyway, though. It's plain as pie in here!"

Arthur sighed and hunched closer over his desk, taping his pen irritably as he tried to regather his thoughts.

"Fine, just... just be quiet about it," he said finally. He glanced up at Alfred briefly, scowling. "As you're able, anyway."

"Yeah, yeah, you got it, doll," Alfred chirped, slinging his rope of New York City-bought Christmas lights over his broad shoulder like a cowboy with a lasso and taking up a hammer and handful of nails as he went to the wall of the tiny underground office they were sharing in the War Cabinet Rooms beneath Downing Street. He was humming some popular overplayed song that Arthur faintly recognised from the radio as he lined up his first nail beneath a pin-up of Rita Hayworth: Arthur was about to point out that _humming_ was not _being quiet_ but was interrupted by the first round of banging, at which he first winced and then sighed and finally put down his pen.

It was official. Alfred had no idea how to be quiet; it was a concept that he simply couldn't grasp. There wasn't even any point in telling him off.

"Alfred," he said, resting his chin on his hand, "it's a wonder Ludwig hasn't pinpointed our exact location by now, it really is."

"Huh?" Alfred glanced over his shoulder at him, nails clamped in his teeth, looking genuinely perplexed.

"You," Arthur elaborated, "and the noise you make at all times."

Alfred grinned around his mouthful of metal and went back to his task; he quickly knocked a wonky line of six crooked nails into the wall, Arthur glancing at the office door every time he started in on a new one, expecting Churchill or one of the other higher-ups from either the British or American armies to come storming in to tell them to stop making such a racket.

Still, at least if that happened, Arthur reasoned blithely, there would be evidence for all to see that _he_ wasn't involved in the racket whatsoever and that it was solely Alfred who was destroying the wall for the sake of his bloody Christmas lights.

Watching Alfred then get tangled up in his Christmas lights as he tried to decide how to arrange them across six flimsy nails, Arthur pulled the radio towards himself, knocking various bits of paperwork aside; he switched it on and began the slow, laborious task of tuning it. They were underground so the signal was never excellent, the sound quality wavering in and out, grainy at best. Alfred had just finished more-or-less slinging his lights haphazardly over the nails, not putting much effort into doing any fancy with them, by the time Arthur managed to get a signal, a weak, watery George Formby song, half of the words indistinguishable. Ah, well, at least it was British – none of that Glenn Miller or Andrews Sisters drivel that Arthur secretly liked but wouldn't admit.

"Okay, let there be light!" Alfred proclaimed gleefully, dropping to his knees with the plug in his hand; he located the socket and jammed the plug in without much ceremony.

Or tried to, at least.

He made a very distressed sound after his fourth attempt.

"Arthur, it won't go in!" he wailed.

"Ah," Arthur agreed calmly. "Yes. That's right. Different design."

"A plug is a plug!"

"Yours have a different shape." Arthur got up, turning the radio up a little as he moved around the desk. He went to Alfred, who was desperately trying to shove the American plug into the British socket – to no avail – anyway. "Alfred, you're going to electrocute yourself."

"It's not fair!" Alfred whined, throwing the plug down frustratedly. "I bought them specially! They're brand new! _They have Disney characters on them!_"

Arthur looked at the sad little buds of glass sprouting from the cord like thorns. Now that Alfred mentioned it, that _did_ look like Mickey Mouse on the green one... and Donald Duck on the blue...

"Well..." he began – before trailing off awkwardly, realising that he had nothing to add. "Well," he said again.

Alfred sighed, his shoulders visibly sagging beneath his camel-coloured uniform jacket.

"They're really awesome Christmas lights," he said, craning his neck to look up at Arthur. "They only just worked out how to put Disney characters on them – and I just figured, you know... _you_ probably don't have any Christmas lights, let alone ones with Disney characters on them. It's all black-out with you and I thought it would be nice to have some festive lights down _here_ at least where Ludwig can't see 'em and use 'em as a target, but..." He looked irritably at the plug again. "Guess not." He sighed again and sat back. "I'm sorry. It's ruined. It's Christmas Day and we ain't got no tree, no pumpkin pie, no candy canes, no Coca-Cola and no damn Disney Christmas lights."

"Alfred, it's not _ruined_," Arthur said, nudging at him with his knee. "You know what? I didn't even realise we were celebrating."

"Not _properly_, obviously," Alfred replied. "We don't have any of the stuff we need down here. I don't even have a present for you. Where was I gonna get one? Still, I was kinda banking on the lights..."

"Well, perhaps it's fitting," Arthur said gently. "As you said, it's all black-out with me – I assure you that London is completely dark up there on the street." He gave a snort. "Of course, I don't know why we're bothering with the black-out tonight. It's Christmas Day – Ludwig will be getting drunk off his arse. So will Gilbert. All those bloody Krauts will."

Alfred gave a little smile but it wasn't long before his blue eyes had slid forlornly back towards his lights, weaving across the wall like a vein of particularly sickly ivy. Arthur sighed impatiently at him.

"_I_ have a present for _you_," he said briskly. "Close your eyes and keep them closed."

Alfred blinked up at him.

"Why?"

"Just do it!" Arthur went back to the desk as he gave the order, rummaging around in the drawer for the emergency candles and a box of matches.

Alfred had stood up and was obediently waiting with his eyes closed, swaying back and forth to the tune of Miller's 'In The Mood', now spilling from the crackling radio. Arthur turned off the desk lamp and Alfred tilted his head confusedly at the sudden darkness behind his eyelids.

"Can I open my eyes yet?" he asked, taking a blind step forward.

"Yes," Arthur replied, repositioning his candles ever so slightly; he watched Alfred open his eyes behind his glasses, watched him blink and hesitate and then smile.

"Christmas lights," he said, still beaming.

"Old-fashioned, I know," Arthur said. "They're just the emergency candles in case the power goes out—"

"I like them." Alfred looked at the two plain yellow-white candles, one at either end of the desk. "It's been a while since I've been in a candlelit room. Guess I've gotten too reliant on electricity..."

Arthur looked at the flickering candles himself.

"Well," he agreed, "there's no denying that electricity is useful but... sometimes it's nice to... I don't know, _remember_."

"Remember what?" Alfred asked. "When there wasn't a freaking war on?"

Arthur smiled sourly at him as he came to his side.

"When _isn't_ there a war on?" he sighed tiredly.

Alfred pulled him into his arms and wrapped him up in an embrace.

"Still," he said close to Arthur's ear, "this is better than the trenches, I guess."

"Mm," Arthur half-purred in response, cuddling against him. "Don't tell anyone, old boy, but I actually hated the trenches."

"Oh, your secret is safe with me!" Alfred laughed, patting him on the back.

"Good. I've got that stiff upper lip thing to keep intact, you know."

"Huh." Alfred paused consideringly. "Your upper lip isn't too stiff to dance with me to old Glenn, is it?"

Arthur sighed deeply against him.

"It's _Christmas_!" Alfred accentuated bleatingly.

"Alright, alright, you ridiculous boy – even if it _is_ to this Yankee bollocks." Arthur stepped back from him and let him take up a half-assed lead position, both of them already moving out of time with each other to the crackling music before they began properly. "It's dark in here, mind; we'll probably fall flat on our faces."

"It's fine, the song's half over anyway," Alfred conceded with a grin. "Just watch your step, babe."

Arthur rolled his eyes at him but smiled. It was more a sort of tame shuffle with a little kick or twist or quick-stop thrown in than it was a proper jitterbug, too dark and without the space or musical momentum to do the thing right; that, and the fact that Arthur had never been particularly good at the jitterbug or the lindy hop or whatever the hell the blasted dance was called didn't particularly help matters. He could keep up well enough but it wasn't always particularly graceful on his part. Alfred was much, much better at it than him.

Which Alfred knew. It made him grin. It made him overconfident—

"Hey, I'm gonna lift you," Alfred announced without much more warning than that; Arthur wasn't expecting to be seized about the waist, wasn't ready for it and was halfway through stepping back towards Alfred again after twisting under his arm away from him when he was grabbed. The momentum of his own motion countered Alfred's and made him overbalance as he hoisted him up—

(And it made him complacent.)

Which was an understatement, Arthur felt, as they toppled with a collective strangled cry and Alfred grabbed flailingly at the string of lights as he fell, bringing both it and the nails down on top of them.

"_Owww_," Alfred moaned a moment later.

"You have to stop doing that without any warning," Arthur grumbled, disentangling himself from first the lights and then from Alfred– who was still lying on his back on the floor groaning to himself. "I'm not a girl and it therefore follows that I'm not as easy to lift as one."

"I totally warned you," Alfred grumbled, arching his back and reaching under himself to grab hold of the discarded Christmas light plug and look at it irritably for a moment before tossing it aside. "God, no wonder that hurt..." He sat up himself, rubbing at the small of his back. "Anyway, you ever think that maybe _you_ just need to lose a few pounds?"

"Sod off – rationing already took care of whatever body fat I had prior to 1940. Frankly I actually wouldn't mind having it back."

Alfred opened his mouth to either reply or laugh that obnoxious laugh of his – but got no further as a knock at the office door sounded.

"Ah, here we go," Arthur grumbled, getting up and going to answer it, straightening his crooked tie. "Stop making such a bleeding racket, anyone would think the pair of you were hammering in nails..."

It was some lowly British officer standing outside the door; he saluted immediately, his posture very rigid.

"Major Kirkland, Mr Churchill wants to see you, sir," he said quickly. "Wouldn't give me the details, just requires your presence immediately."

"What about Captain Jones?" Arthur asked, thumbing over his shoulder at Alfred, who had come wandering over to be nosy on hearing Arthur being addressed by rank.

"Mr Churchill didn't ask for him, sir," the officer replied, barely looking at Alfred. "Just for you."

"I... well, yes, alright then," Arthur muttered; he gave a quick, barely-formed salute himself and then waved the same hand at the officer. "I'll be along now."

The officer gave a nod and turned, walking briskly away as though rather glad to get away from them.

"Why was he scared of you?" Alfred asked as Arthur closed the door again. "I find it hard to believe you're as cruel and ruthless as all that."

Arthur sighed at him as he went to get his hat from the back of his chair.

"He's not afraid of me," he explained wearily. "He just doesn't want to be down here. It's Christmas Day and he got sent on an errand that tore him away from drinking with his chums – and besides, drinking with his chums probably isn't _even_ what he'd rather be doing. Maybe he has a wife, a sweetheart, a child, a mother, a _family_ he'd prefer to be with today." He put on his hat to complete his uniform and turned towards Alfred. "And he can't be with them. He can't go home, even on Christmas Day. Why not? Because Churchill and I aren't going to back down. If you must know, I honestly don't care _how_ many Christmases it takes."

Alfred frowned at him.

"Well, neither do I, but—"

"That's that, then," Arthur said. "Cruel and ruthless, as you said. Besides, you'll find that the war tends to lose popularity around this time of year. Nothing much about it is exactly in the spirit of the season, is it? Goodwill to all men – except those bloody Jerries." He glanced at the clock on the wall. "Oh well, only twenty minutes left of Christmas Day left anyway. Lord knows how long my boss is going to keep me with his godforsaken maps and newspapers so I might as well say it now." He put a hand on Alfred's chest and pressed up towards him, kissing him on the cheek. "Merry Christmas, love. Blow out the candles and make a wish."

He moved away and Alfred caught him and brought him back to kiss him properly; Arthur kissed him back for a long, blissful moment (during which Alfred thought that he might actually be able to keep Arthur here for himself instead) before suddenly coming back to himself and pulling away rather firmly.

"Don't go bruising my lips again," he huffed breathlessly, "or Churchill will just sit and smirk at me for the whole meeting. The "I know and approve of you shagging the United States" one is his worst."

"Fine," Alfred said with a grin, "I'll let you off for now – but you're going to be putting up with that worst smirk of his _all day_ tomorrow."

Arthur merely snorted at him, patted his broad chest somewhat derisively and stalked out of the office with as much dignity as he could muster. Which was remarkably quite a bit, actually.

_Still, you won't be walking like that tomorrow,_ Alfred thought gleefully, watching him go.

He groped about for the light and flicked it back on, whistling along to the struggling radio buzzing its way through Bing Crosby's "Comin' In On a Wing and a Prayer'. Two American songs in a row, he couldn't help but note. Arthur never _had_ been a very good liar – and Alfred wondered why he was even still bothering considering all this. American GIs on leave in Britain were still the toast of the town with their fast-paced jitterbugs and uniform pockets full of gleaming coins and chocolate and it wasn't as though Arthur himself was immune to those particular charms. The plug-shaped bruise no doubt forming on Alfred's back was testament to that – as was the fact that Arthur, though he would never admit it, could be bribed with chocolate. Alfred had taken to always carrying a bar in his pocket for a while (just in case) until he discovered that Arthur was quite a good pickpocket and kept robbing him whilst pretending to be affectionate.

("I wondered where all my bribery-chocolate was going, you little thief!" Alfred said crossly, manually extracting Arthur's hand from inside his bomber jacket – clutching the half-melted Hershey bar, of course.

"If it's bribery-chocolate then it's for me anyway," Arthur replied flatly. "So let go."

"I'm not just going to let you _steal_ it! You have to earn it!"

Arthur scowled at him.

"Earn it?" he replied icily. "How is _this_ for earning it? Rationing, bombing on cities, more rationing, more bombing on cities!" He successfully snatched his hand back, still clinging to his prize. "You don't understand what it's like. We don't have things like this anymore and you, conversely, have a whole _suitcase_ full of chocolate!" He clutched at the mangled bar very possessively. "Besides, you know I can be rather determined when I want something.")

Rationing. Bombing on cities. Soldiers parted from their families for yet another Christmas. No Disney Christmas lights. All because Arthur was rather determined when he wanted something – when he wanted victory.

Alfred leaned over and switched off the radio, glancing at the little propped-up calendar sitting on the desk next to it.

December 25th, 1944.

He blew out the candles and made his wish.

* * *

But you should be careful what you wish for. WWII was over by the August of the following year but the Cold War was hot on its heels (lol paradox).

**Christmas lights with Disney characters on them:** New technology in the 1940s and the must-have thing for the season. I know about these because there was a string of Disney's _Snow White_-themed Christmas lights in my dad's family when he was little that dated from the 1940s (my dad was born in '56) that he really liked. Apparently they were dangerous and sparked all over the place and had to be thrown out but according to aunts and uncles, my dad used to play with them when he was a kid so I reckon he actually broke them and the "Uh, they were dangerous!" thing is a cover-up.

American and British plugs are different. That's why my American laptop always needs a USA-to-UK plug adaptor on it at all times like some kind of bulky condom as though I can't trust it not to father hundreds of little baby plugs that will be of no use to anyone because they're Anglo-American mutants and have like five pins or something... XD

**Ranks:** I don't even know if the characters have ranks in _Hetalia_. It looks like Hidekaz just picked whatever uniforms he liked best. None of them have any kind of rank insignia on them, although England is notably officer class because his uniform has an officer's/Sam Browne belt. In the armed forces, Major is a much higher rank than Captain – however, America wears an air force uniform, not an armed forces one. If I've understood the Wikipedia article correctly, the rank of Captain in the air force is more or less equal to Major in the army... I think. But then we're talking US Air Force Captain against British Army Major so I don't know if those correlate the same way...

Eh. Whatever. I don't pretend to know how the army works. If America is a lower rank than England, it's probably for the best, lolololol.

Hershey's chocolate is awful and I've yet to meet a fellow Brit who disagrees with me. It was probably better than ration chocolate, though.

Thankyou all for following this all the way through this week! It's been fun counting down even though I _still_ can't believe it's Christmas again already...

Merry Christmas for tomorrow! Hope Santa brings you all lots of goodies! =)

RobinRocks

xXx

Ah, how seasonal my pen-name is at this time of year...


End file.
